


How to Train Your Lieutenant

by ktula



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (Referenced) - Freeform, Canon Era, Edging, Edward Little's Half-Pay Sexcapades, Edward Little's No Good Very Bad First Lieutenanting, Fingers in Mouth, Light Bondage, M/M, Overstimulation, Power Exchange, Sex Crying, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, The Futile Search for a Sense of Decorum on Terror, Three Lieutenants One Brain Cell, Tom Jopson's Mysterious Smile, Topson, accent kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: Captain Crozier is displeased with the lieutenants Commander Fitzjames has assigned to Terror.Tom Jopson thinks he can do something about that.(It's very much a two birds, one stone situation.)
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little, William Gibson & Thomas Jopson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 76
Collections: The Joplittle Fall Fic Exchange 2020





	How to Train Your Lieutenant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> Content notes are at the bottom!

Tom has positioned himself very carefully—not directly next to the rigging, but exactly within the sight of the marines, so he can watch them run their drills on the deck. They’re very handsome, all kitted out in red with the white band across their chests and probably, now that he’s convinced himself to consider it, significantly _safer_ as opposed to, say, a lieutenant, particularly one who—

He straightens as someone comes up to the railing next to him, and straightens further when he’s met with a grumbled, “Don’t bother, Jopson.”

“Sir,” he says politely, glancing sidelong at Captain Crozier. “I was on my way back down—”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Crozier growls. “Like a goddamn circus down there—Fitzjames is having me on with his staffing.”

Tom pulls his attention away from the marines entirely to focus on his captain. “Oh?”

Captain Crozier looks like a particularly intent thundercloud, with his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled low over his forehead. He’s left his coat down below again, which is a habit Tom hasn’t yet cured him of, and which causes him great distress—though perhaps the weather is mild enough today that the captain will be fine until Tom has a moment to duck down and grab it for him, which he is fully intends to do the moment he is dismissed.

“Terrible quality lieutenants,” Crozier says. “Absolutely godawful.”

“It’s very early in the voyage yet, sir,” Tom offers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Crozier says, leaning forward on the railing and scowling at the ocean. “Not even you could make anything of them, Jopson.”

Tom represses his smile, ducks his head. “I’m sure it’s just an adjustment period, sir.”

Crozier turns, claps Tom on the shoulder and tugs him in close. “Mark my words,” he says, breath smelling of whisky. “Fitzjames has done this to me deliberately. Knew he had an ulterior motive in enlisting people, assigning them to ships. This is it.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom meets his captain’s eyes, and then notices him squint against a slightly stronger gust of wind. “I’ll get your coat, sir.”

Crozier rolls his eyes, lets go of Tom’s shoulder. “Whatever you like, Jopson.”

“I’d like to get your coat, sir,” he says primly. He’s rewarded with an approximation of a smile, which is more than what he expected to get.

Tom does glance briefly up at the rigging on his way down below.

As expected, it makes his leg ache.

🥕🍎

Edward absolutely should have resigned his commission. He’d had eighteen months in which to do it, and had proceeded to do nothing of the sort, which now leaves him here—horribly, consciously aware that most of his knowledge has been lost to a blur of things which are better left unnamed (which, to his great consternation, have the audacity to remain Very Clear in his mind despite all his attempts to haze them out), and with absolutely no escape, as they are very much deep into their voyage surrounded by nothing but open water, and he had not volunteered himself to be sent back when there was an option to do so.

(He’d like to think it was due to the shame he would have felt in admitting his faults to the captain, but woefully, it was in fact more due to fact that he would have to admit it in front of the man standing directly to the captain’s right, tucked away in the background—)

“This is unbecoming of a Royal Navy vessel,” Irving snipes, and he stabs with his finger at a point in the Articles. “This says—”

“The church services are still being held in full on Erebus,” Hodgson points out gently. “We can just go over on Sunday! I’ll go with you, it’s fine. I have friends there, have I told you—”

“This voyage isn’t for _friends_ ,” Irving objects, his voice going shrill. “It’s not _my_ soul I’m worried about. Did you know that I had _no_ volunteers for bible study? And one of the petty officers had the audacity to _laugh_ at me—”

Edward would dearly love to just go back to his cabin, and slide the door shut. Lay face-first on his bed and just—not think. About any of this. Only there are reports to be written and figures to be checked and Hodgson and Irving are still sniping at each other and there is absolutely no reprieve from any of this. “Gentlemen,” he tries.

He is absolutely unheard by either of them.

The door to the great cabin opens and Edward looks over immediately, hoping for a reprieve, but there is none forthcoming.

It’s Jopson, moving so quietly he can hardly be heard at all. Edward shouldn’t look, shouldn’t stare, should absolutely shut this down immediately because wasn’t that the entire purpose of the whole eighteen month—

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Jopson says softly, and Irving and Hodgson both stop talking immediately, watching him as he slips into the captain’s cabin, and emerges a moment later with the captain’s coat, and that’s fine, that’s absolutely fine, Edward can take it from here, can calm down the others so at least the captain doesn’t have to hear them squabbling, maintain some semblance of first lieutenantship, except just before Jopson leaves the cabin, he glances back over his shoulder and _looks_ at Edward.

Edward’s entire body goes still as if he’s been dipped directly into the freezing ocean, his words frozen in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears, and the rest of his body horribly, uncomfortably warm. Jopson’s eyes are green and his jaw is very fine and his hair is just on the verge of falling forward into his face and Edward would dearly like to cross the room and reach out and push it back behind his ear for him if he thought there would be a chance of Jopson allowing it.

Then Jopson turns his head and slips back out of the cabin. Irving and Hodgson start squabbling again, and Edward stands there feeling like an absolute fool who should have reported himself for crimes against the Articles the very moment he first laid eyes on Jopson, because if eighteen months of paying for men to have sex with him every way he could possibly imagine wasn’t enough to purge his desires from his body, what hope has he of lasting the rest of the voyage?

🍎🥕

“—and what do I know about music?” Billy asks. “So it’s just awkward...him talking away, asking my opinion on things, and me just feeling stupider and stupider as it goes, till I leave the room feeling like an imbecile.”

Tom nods, making a sympathetic sound as he holds the knife up to the light, tilting it back and forth to check the polish on it before setting it down, picking up another one. “D’ya think ‘e means it?”

(God, he can feel his face heat up at the extent to which he’s letting his accent slip, but it’s just he and Billy here, and Billy, of all people, has to understand. Billy hasn’t got an accent to slip, he sounds how he sounds, but he sits differently when he’s just him and Tom, less like he’s trying and failing to make himself smaller.)

Billy makes an irritated noise, inhales from his cigarette and holds it out for Tom to take a drag without needing to set down either his polishing cloth or the knife. “They can’t help their breeding. It’s a different world.”

Tom holds the smoke in his lungs a moment before carefully exhaling away from the cutlery, trying and failing not to think of Lieutenant Little, and how serious he looks at all times, and how carefully he studies the Articles, which is as good an indication as any that Tom shouldn’t be looking in the first place. (The marines, the marines would be much safer.) “S’pose. And Lieutenant Irving?”

“Flinches when I touch him,” Billy says. “Ever tried to shave a man without touching him?” He takes a drag on his cigarette, speaks through a cloud of smoke. “Impossible. Mark me, I’ll get lectured on _appropriate behaviour_ within the week, and told about my soul and its many failings by next.” He stares down at his cigarette before carefully ashing it onto the deck and scuffing at the ash with the toe of his boot.

“What’s ‘is problem?”

“Same as it always is,” Billy says. He leans forward, resting his pointy elbows on his equally pointy knees, lowers his voice. “Like recognises like.”

Tom chuckles, half-hides it by ducking his head before remembering he doesn’t have to, not here. Not when Billy will snicker about it with him. It feels damn nice to be able to laugh about _something_ , even if it is at the expense of someone else.

Billy straightens up, offers the last of the cigarette back to Tom and holds it steady for him to inhale. Tom nods his thanks, savours the smoke even as his hands keep moving on their own, polishing spoons without needing to think about it.

“Nothing about Little to report back,” Billy says, as though he’s tying up the only loose end on their discussion. “Quiet, doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t look at me, always either reading or writing. Keeps the Articles close. Keeps...I don’t know what they are, really. Math, it looks like. Dunno if they’re putting one of the mates through to the lieutenant exam?”

Tom’s resulting exhalation is a bit shaky, but he clears his throat before he says anything. “Maybe.” He feels a little...off about having had his suspicion confirmed. That Lieutenant Little is exactly as he appears on the surface—strict, serious, by the book. It’s a disappointment, really, which is odd because Tom had already settled on the marines, so there’s no reason that it _should_ be. He clears his throat again. “How about you? You making out alright?”

Billy narrows his eyes at him a moment, and then his face just...softens. “Yeah,” he says, after a moment. “Yeah, I am. There’s, er. Well.”

Tom sets down his spoon, picks up the next. “Yeah?” It’s not likely to be one of the lieutenants, unless he’s gone and made eyes at someone over on Erebus. They’re not over on _Terror_ often, but it’s enough. Le Vesconte, maybe, he looks like he’s at least half one of theirs. At sea, at least, if not on land.

“...caulker’s mate,” Billy says, finally.

Tom bites his lip and casts back through his mind a moment, finally coming up with an image of a pale, rat-faced man, only memorable because every time Tom sees him, he looks as though he’s forgotten which area of the ship he’s in. “Handsome man,” he says, because it’s easy enough to say even though he doesn’t particularly mean it. “He adjusting to sea a bit better now?”

Billy nods. “I’ve been helping,” he admits. “He’d been away from it for a number of years. Family trouble, he’d said.”

“Aye.”

Billy taps out the stub of his cigarette, extends his leg and taps his foot against Tom’s ankle. It’s no effort at all, not with legs the length of his. “Kind of you to ask, though.” He stands, unfolds himself to his full height. “I should get going.”

Tom smiles, nods. Sets down the last spoon, and picks up one of the forks, starts working on polishing it. “Thanks for the smoke.”

“Thanks for the chat.” Billy hesitates right before he leaves. “Actually, there is one other thing.”

Tom glances up, hands still moving as he polishes the silverware by rote. “Hmm?”

“About Lieutenant Little. He’s got a, er.” Billy taps the lobe of his ear.

“Hard of hearing?” Tom hazards.

“No, no,” Billy says. “A hole. Scar. Whatever you’d like to call it. In his ear.”

Tom blinks at him. “What?”

“Pay attention the next time you’re close to him,” Billy suggests. “Obvious as hell once you’re looking for it.”

Well.

If that isn’t completely unexpected.

“Will do,” Tom says.

🥕🍎

_For god’s sake, Edward, what the bleeding hell is this?_

Edward winces, grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, bites down on his own lip. It was dumb, really. He’d had everything he’d needed written down, it’s just he’d...choked, somehow, on reporting to the captain.

He opens his eyes, and stares down at his report. Still there. Still right. Still not at all what he’d told the captain.

_Fuck_.

He rests his elbows on his desk. His forehead on his hands. Christ, why the fuck has everything just... _gone_? He’s all night reviewing things—Irving’s reports, Hodgson’s reports, compiling everything to report to Captain Crozier, and it all makes sense on paper, but one look from the captain just sends everything wheeling out of his head, and stills his tongue in his mouth.

It’s too late to do anything about it now. He’s already upset the captain once today; there’s no use going back again now that it’s late in order to make a hash of it a second time. And first thing in the morning won’t be good either, the captain will be indisposed at best, and at worst, the timing will conflict with everything else, but he absolutely has to get the entire way through this report instead of being scolded and sent out of the great cabin in shame.

“Damn,” Edward says distinctly, and then he cringes, his face going hot when the profanity is immediately followed by a sharp rap at his door. He stands, winces when the action knocks the back of his chair against his washbasin, turns, slides the door open. “John, sorry, I—”

“Not John, sir,” Jopson says, his voice so soft it won’t carry any further than between the two of them.

“Er,” Edward manages. He swallows. They are very close. Jopson has not stepped back, and his face is very serious. “Mr. Jopson. Good evening.”

Jopson smiles—a flash of bright white teeth—and lifts his tray, ever so slightly.

Edward’s gaze drops. There’s a pot of tea there. One cup. Steam rising from the pot. “Did Mr. Gibson send you?” he asks, feeling a little sick about it, because if Gibson knows that the captain reamed him out earlier—if Gibson has been gossiping about it with Jopson—where must Jopson’s opinion of Edward be located now? Surely below sea level. Surely—

“The light from your lamp was visible under the door, sir,” Jopson says, still in that same soft voice that Edward very nearly needs to lean in to be able to hear. He shifts on his feet a little, and Edward regains the manners he had momentarily lost, gestures for Jopson to come in.

The lamplight is leaking out into the passageway now, and if the noise hadn’t disturbed anyone, the light definitely will. It’s with that in mind that Edward slides the panel shut again, only to turn and find that there are now two men in a cabin that is only meant for one. The air that he’s breathing is the air that Jopson breathes. If he takes a step forward, he’s likely to jostle Jopson back toward the bunk, and he squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden memory of having done just that back on land, in Greenhithe, in London, with different men—dark-haired and light-haired and one man with brilliant auburn hair, but none so beautiful as Jopson.

(He needs to _stop_.)

Jopson doesn’t seem to have noticed, at least. He’s setting the tea things out on Edward’s desk, carefully making room for the cup and saucer without actually moving any of Edward’s papers, but, God, Edward’s cramped, messy handwriting is right there for Jopson to see, and Edward wishes he’d taken the opportunity to put everything away, first, so that he could show nothing to Jopson but a blank slate, without any of his errors visible.

He watches Jopson’s hands as Jopson pours a cup of tea, watches his fingers on the fine china, the cleanliness of his nails. Edward is conscious of the ink spots on the pads of his own fingers, his tendency to chew at his nails when he’s trying to concentrate. He wants Jopson to look at him. He doesn’t want to be exposed.

Jopson _is_ looking at him, his gaze steady, his eyes dark.

Edward blinks. Reaches for the tea without breaking eye contact, inadvertently stabs the cup with his fingers and sets it rattling in the saucer before he turns, picks it up and steadies it. He takes a quick sip of tea, and doesn’t even burn his tongue, because it’s the exact perfect temperature, because that’s who Jopson is as a person. This is how Jopson does his job, and Edward’s face burns anew with the shame at how poorly Edward is doing at his own.

(Jopson is still looking at him, at his...hair, Edward thinks. He’d likely mussed it when he was working on his report for the captain. He should have fixed it before he slid the door aside.)

“Your tea is perfect,” Edward says, attempting to pitch his voice low, and mistakenly pitching it _too_ low.

Jopson’s eyes brighten as he looks back at Edward. “Thank you, sir.” He tilts his head to the papers on Edward’s desk, setting his forelock loose so that it falls against his cheekbone. “If it’s any consolation, the captain is abed—no need to give him a verbal report tonight.”

Edward grimaces, tries to hide it in his tea. Tries not to watch Jopson’s eyes scanning the lines of his own report, suddenly conscious of how cramped his handwriting is, how poorly formed his letters are, the places where the ink has smeared.

“Sir,” Jopson offers, “I could take the written report to his cabin, make sure he sees it as soon as he’s ready to receive reports for the day.”

Edward opens his mouth to protest—he _should_ give a verbal report, he should recopy the written in a better hand, he should review and confirm that he’s done everything correctly, he should—

But then Jopson smiles at him, and Edward finds himself nodding, fixated again on Jopson’s hands as he gathers up the papers, taps them against the desk to straighten them and then holds them out to Edward.

“To ensure I haven’t scrambled them, sir,” Jopson says, and Edward rushes to put down the tea and obey.

(They’re in perfect order, of course they’re in perfect order.)

Edward hands the papers back, and his gaze gets caught on Jopson’s hands, his knuckles, his fingers, his clean nails. Edward wonders if Jopson has calluses on his fingers, from the work he does. Wonders what it would feel like to have one of those calluses brush against his own skin. If Jopson were to touch his wrist, to fix a button, to bite off a thread—

“I should get back,” Jopson says gently, and Edward realizes that he has been distracted, has let the conversation lapse.

He clears his throat. “Of course, Mr. Jopson. You have things to do.”

Jopson offers a mysterious half-smile, and then gestures to the tea. “You may leave the tea things on your desk, sir, if it’s alright for me to collect them later on.”

“Any time you like,” Edward says immediately, and he doesn’t realize the impropriety of his words until after Jopson has smiled at him again, slipped past him, and out of his cabin entirely.

It sounded like an offer.

It wasn’t meant as one.

(It _wasn’t_.)

Edward sighs, sits back down in his chair. Puts his head on his desk.

He can smell the tea Jopson left for him. Not only that, he can smell the scent of Jopson’s clothes. He imagines he can hear Jopson’s voice, offering commentary on his report. On the quality of his handwriting. The exactness of his figures.

His cock twitches in his trousers. Edward presses down on it with the heel of his hand, and tries to ignore it.

🍎🥕

Tom arches up into his own hand, bites down on his arm to stifle the moan in the back of his throat. He’s thinking of Little’s hands, the ink on his fingers. Thinking of drawing those fingers into his mouth, laving over the ink spots with his tongue, sucking it from his skin. In his mind’s eye, Little is astride him, his arse pressed down against Tom’s hips.

He does not look much like a naval officer, in Tom’s mind. He’s stripped completely bare, for one, and his hair is loose, falling about his face. He hasn’t shaved, because he will let Tom shave him after this. He will let Tom shave him and bathe him, all the while with Tom’s seed leaking from his arse, and then he’ll let Tom clean him there too, plunder him anew with his fingers in preparation for taking his cock a second time.

Tom turns his head into the pillow, tightens his grip on himself. Imagines Little gasping out a sob as Tom thrusts up into him, tipping his head back and baring the long column of his throat. He’s wearing jewelry—not like a naval officer, nothing like that—like a proper _pirate_ , with a gold ring glinting in his ear, right where he’d seen the small indentation that Billy had alerted him to. He wonders what other secrets Lieutenant Little is hiding; wonders what lies under his clothing. Tom imagines rings through his nipples, tattoos on his biceps and his chest. Perhaps—a wild dream, but if Tom cannot dream now, when can he?—perhaps even a thick gold ring through the head of his cock, which is something he’d heard gossiped about when he was down in Antarctica.

He imagines Little’s cock as a proud, thick thing, arcing up toward his belly, the gold ring glinting in the light, and slick with fluid leaking from the tip. He imagines that same fluid dripping down from the head, drooling down onto Tom’s own stomach, and his breath hitches as he spends, groaning soundlessly, and curling his hips to direct his own emission onto his belly.

When the last, weakening aftershock goes through him, Tom exhales, reaches for his handkerchief to mop up the mess. He leaves his imagined version of Lieutenant Little exactly as he was—cock hard, body tense, teeth digging into his lower lip—a treat that he’ll come back to over the course of the day, in his quiet hours. Instead, he thinks of Little as he was in his cabin earlier, thinks of his dark eyelashes and his hand curled around the teacup, thinks of his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip.

_Edward_ , Tom thinks.

_Edward._

🥕🍎

“Oh, before you leave,” Captain Crozier says.

Edward tenses, stills. _I’ll do better next time. Try harder. Provide more detail. Have better penmanship._ He forces his shoulders down, turns and addresses the captain’s buttons. “Sir?”

“Report was good,” the captain says gruffly. “Thank you.”

_The report was good_. “Sir,” Edward says, because that’s not actually what he expected to hear, and he has nothing else prepared in response.

After standing there in silence for a few moments, Edward nods, mumbles something, and gets the hell out of the great cabin before the captain changes his mind.

Jopson had something to do with this.

Edward stops the first man he sees. “Captain’s steward?” Glances up at Gibson’s cavernous face, and clarifies. “Have you seen him?”

“Have you checked his cabin, sir?” Gibson offers.

Edward scowls at him to hide the surge of elation that bolts through his chest like lightning, because that would be something indeed—slipping into Jopson’s cabin, catching him at rest, or at his washstand, perhaps, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up to expose his bare wrists—

“You may want to check the pantry, then.” Gibson clears his throat. “Sir.”

Edward nods, steps around Gibson and proceeds to the lower deck, his shoulders back up around his ears. He’d been plagued with dreams last night, vivid in their imagery and erotic in subject matter, and managed to wake up in just enough time to avoid making a mess of his bedsheets, though his nightshirt and his dignity had suffered in the process. Gibson hadn’t remarked on the poor job Edward had done handwashing his nightshirt, nor on its location draped off the rail of Edward’s bunk, but being shaved that morning had been a hellishly difficult affair anyway, and Edward had been glad when it was finished.

He regrets that he doesn’t recall more of the dream. He thinks Jopson had been fully clothed, but he himself had been in his nightshirt. Well. Not exactly his nightshirt, because the garment he had been wearing had buttons all the way down the front, like a woman’s, and it had been those which Jopson had been undoing, carefully, opening the garment up to show Edward’s neck, his chest, his stomach, his—

The doorknob under his hand turns when he doesn’t expect it to, and Edward stumbles into the pantry more than he walks, recovers himself with a hand on—

—with a hand on Jopson’s back, the door closing quietly behind him.

Jopson doesn’t startle, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything but turn his head ever so slightly, and then exhale. “Lieutenant Little,” he says, his voice low.

The pantry isn’t large enough for both of them to move in the space comfortably. Jopson is crouched down, one hand braced on the edge of the opened bottom drawer, and the other hand on his own knee. If Edward backs up, he’ll hit the door. If he moves forward, he’ll rub right up against Jopson, and the thought of it sets the back of his neck hot.

“Mr. Jopson,” Edward manages, long past the time he should have said something.

“Were you looking for me, sir?” Jopson asks. He’s looking down at the opened drawer now, his hands moving among the bottles there, as though he’s taking a count of their contents, or merely attempting to locate a specific item.

“I was,” Edward says gruffly.

“Does the captain have need of me?”

“No,” Edward says. “Er, he didn’t specify, actually, he said—the report was good.”

Jopson pulls two bottles from the drawer, closes it gently and sets them down on top of the tray on top. Turns to face Edward, the corner of his mouth curved upward just slightly. “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

_What did you do to it_ , Edward thinks, but what he says is “Thank you.”

Jopson’s smile widens, shows a small flash of teeth. “All I did was ensure that your work was visible to the captain first thing, sir.”

“You must have...intervened,” Edward says. He’s fixated on Jopson’s hands, the length of his fingers, the broadness of his palms. He takes a step forward, into the room, closer to Jopson, and Jopson does not move away.

“Not at all, sir, I wouldn’t presume in that way.” Jopson is still using his quiet voice, the one that Edward wants to lean in closer to hear. The one that—the one that he _can_ lean in closer to hear, because it’s only the two of them here.

(It’s only the two of them here.)

“I am beginning to suspect there are things I can learn from you, Mr. Jopson,” Edward offers, and it’s all he can do not to step forward again, inhale deeply to capture the scent of Jopson’s clothing. It has faded from his cabin, now, and Edward wants it back, wants Jopson back.

“Oh, that’s a laugh,” Jopson says, but he’s not making a joke of it. He’s looking at Edward, his face serious. His hand is balanced on top of the cabinet behind him, his fingers tapping at the wood. _Tap, tap, tap._ “Can you imagine…”

Edward swallows. Thinks of Jopson’s fingers on him. Of Jopson dressing him. Undressing him. Loosening his collar.

“...me, teaching a lieutenant.” Jopson’s fingers still on the cabinet, and his eyes flick upward, meet Edward’s.

“I can,” Edward says hoarsely. “Imagine it. Rather well.”

“Is that so?,” Jopson says, voice low. “And what kind of things might you like to be taught, sir?”

Edward’s heart is pounding. He would like to be taught whatever Jopson would like to teach him, but cannot think of a way to say the words. “I...wonder if you might...have s-some ideas.”

Jopson’s eyebrows rise, slightly, and he steps away from the cabinet. Toward Edward. “Well, sir,” he says, and his voice has roughened slightly around the edges. “I think—”

From above, the bell sounds. Edward tilts his head to listen. Six bells, nearing the end of the afternoon watch. When he turns his head back, he catches Jopson’s face smoothing out into a neutral expression.

(He _doesn’t_ catch the expression he’d made immediately prior, but fears it may have been important.)

“I’m keeping you from your duties,” Edward says, feeling guilty for having interrupted. “Perhaps another time?”

Jopson exhales, turns and picks up his tray. The bottles on it don’t so much as wobble. “Another time, sir,” he agrees.

Edward reaches for the door, holds it open for Jopson, leans in to hear the murmured _thank you, sir_ , and stills as Jopson’s body brushes against his own, their arms briefly pressing together as Jopson steps past him.

(Edward can feel himself hardening, that low, terrible ache, want and arousal curling—)

“I would prefer not to lock you in, sir,” Jopson murmurs from outside the door.

Edward bites off a curse, steps sharply out of the pantry, and to the other side of the passage. Glances at Jopson, watches him balance the tray with one hand while he pulls out a key with the other. He deftly locks the door, and then checks it.

“My apologies,” Edward says, rattled.

“No need, sir,” Jopson says. He looks at Edward again, eyes flicking down and then up again. “It would be rather meaningless to be locked on separate sides of the door, sir, would it not?”

Edward’s face goes hot, and the corner of Jopson’s mouth lifts in a very small smile.

🍎🥕

Tom very nearly whistles as he heads down to the galley, but keeps his face neutral even though his heartbeat has picked up. He loves being a steward, because it affords him a sense of invisibility that the officers don’t have. He doesn’t even think anyone looks up as he enters, sets down his tray of dirty glasses from the wardroom, and just as quickly leaves again, heads back up to Little’s cabin.

He passes by it completely at first, stops at the end of the passageway to put his hand to the closed door of the great cabin and leans in. He can hear the Captain’s voice—raised—and the Commander’s—lowered. He listens long enough to confirm his suspicion that he will not be needed for some time, and then steps away from the door, returns to Little’s, and taps his knuckles softly on the panel.

Silence, for a moment.

“Come in,” Little says, his voice low.

Tom slides the door aside, slips in, slides it back. Looks.

And oh, what a beautiful sight to see. Little has his jacket off, hung carefully off the bookshelf at the foot of his bed, and he’s standing by the washbasin in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. His cuffs have been turned back—as though Tom can’t see the ink spots that he’s trying to disguise—and his wrists are bare and visible, more delicate than what Tom had expected they would be. Little swallows, brings his hand back through his hair.

“Mr. Jopson,” he says. Winces, then, as a muffled noise echoes from the great cabin next door.

That’s not suitable to Tom’s purposes, not at all. Tom takes a step closer, watches as Little turns fully toward Tom, his hands going down by his sides.

“Good evening, sir,” he says. “You’d said ‘another time’, earlier.”

“I did,” Little says.

Tom takes another step forward, notes how easily Little moves back toward his own bunk, responding to Tom’s implicit guidance with a graceful ease. “Does this time suit, sir?”

“It does,” Little says softly.

“We were interrupted, before,” Tom says, taking another step closer.

This time, Little doesn’t step back. This time, Little puts his hands back on the railing of his bunk, and doesn’t move. “I didn’t tell you what I would learn from you,” he says, voice rough.

“You did not, sir,” Tom confirms. He takes another step, stands toe-to-toe with Little. Carefully drags his eyes up the other man’s body, from the buttons of his waistcoat to those of his shirt, the silk neckerchief still tied around his neck, the points of his collar. Settles his eyes for a moment on Little’s lips, before flicking his gaze up sharply to meet Little’s.

Little’s eyes are near black. His breath quickens as Tom leans in, just a little closer. His lips part.

Tom could have anything he wants at this moment. He raises his hand, watches the way Little’s eyes shift, fixed on the movement of Tom’s fingers. Brings his hand closer to Little’s face.

The voices rise in the great cabin, muffled by the walls.

“I’m listening,” Little says quickly.

Tom stills his hand. Brings the other hand up, places it next to Little’s on the railing of the berth. They are not touching.

(Not yet.)

“Please tell me what you wish to learn, sir,” Tom breathes, imagining bringing his fingers to Little’s neck, plucking his neckerchief free of the knot. Sliding the silk free. Exposing the hollow of his throat. “I imagine I might be able to teach you a great many things.” He settles for bringing his other hand down. An experiment of sorts, penning Little in, seeing how he’ll respond. The entire situation can be reversed in a moment—a quick step back, his own hands clasped, Little would have all the space he needs then—

Little’s breath catches, audibly. He tips his chin upward, exposing a bare sliver of skin. Sags back against the bunk. “You fixed the report,” he says breathlessly.

Tom straightens his own spine, smiles. “I only ensured that the timing was ideal, sir,” he corrects gently.

(He watches the way Little’s eyelashes lower, just briefly obscuring his eyes for a moment before Little focuses back on him.)

“Tell me what to do next,” Little says, and there is an enchanting edge to his voice—not quite desperation, not quite a plea, just a naked and exposed _want_ that Tom wants to gather up and tuck away somewhere safe—and then he realizes.

For Little? Tom _is_ somewhere safe, for what else explains Little’s posture, his half-lidded eyes, the way his tongue slides over his lower lip?

(What else explains the slow slide of Little’s hands toward Tom’s own, so that the side of Little’s hand very nearly touches Tom’s thumb, when Tom knows that he deliberately left more space than that between their bodies?)

“Wouldn’t you rather be rewarded first, sir?” Tom asks, his voice pitched low. “After all, you did _very_ well.”

Little shudders. Bites his lower lip, and shuts his eyes. Nods.

Tom lifts his left hand from the railing, brings it up to Little’s face. Touches his cheekbone gently, cups his jaw because his instinct is that Little will respond to gentleness, and he’s more correct than he could have hoped, because not only does Little sigh and press into his hand, he also tilts his chin up again, offers his lips.

Tom leans in and kisses Little, who makes a small helpless sound in the back of his throat, and lets his mouth fall slack. Their noses rub together, and Tom smiles, tilts Little’s chin with his hand, and kisses him again, mouth slightly open. Little’s skin is soft, and his hair smells of macassar oil.

“Sorry,” Little says, his breath catching. “I don’t, er. Often.”

“Not a kissing man, sir?” Tom asks, amused. He presses his lips to Little’s again, inwardly pleased when Little kisses him back, this time—awkwardly, yes, but charming in spite of it.

...or, Tom muses, perhaps _because_ of it.

“Not paying them to pretend they’re in love with me,” Little murmurs against his lips, before pulling back, his eyes wide. “Er, I. Um.”

“It’s all right, sir,” Tom says softly, oddly touched. He brings his other hand up to cradle the other side of Little’s face, and then pulls him in again, ignoring the ache of his cock—if he’s to have Little properly, he’ll wait for it. If the way Little responds to his touch is any indication at all, it’ll be well worth the wait. “We’ll have you practiced up in no time.”

“Please,” Little breathes, his eyes falling closed again. “Teach me.”

🥕🍎

It’s difficult not to stare at Jopson the next morning, but Edward is doing his level best. It helps that he’s keeping his chin tucked, and his head down to hide the smile which keeps threatening to emerge. He doesn’t remember the last time he kissed someone—and now, fresh off an evening spent _only_ kissing, he doesn’t think there’s any point in attempting to recall other kisses. There is only Jopson, and his mouth, and his tongue, and his hands tight on Edward’s wrist, pinning him back to the bed.

(There had been the ghost of Jopson’s thigh, once, only the moment Edward had rocked into it, Jopson had given him a small half-smile and pulled away, tightening his grip on Edward’s wrists to keep him from following, and, oh, Edward would have given him anything in that moment.)

“I’ll need someone to liaise with the marines,” the Captain is saying. “Lieutenant Little.”

Edward slowly raises his eyes.

The Captain looks exhausted this morning, his forehead pinched as though he is suffering from a headache. He’s not making eye contact with any of them, but is staring off into the distance, one hand wrapped around his tea cup as though he won’t let it go without a fight.

Edward has...questions. Primarily, whether it’s necessary for the marines to know that the possibility of hunting parties may arise sooner than they think, or whether it’s better to keep the information from them until it’s immediately pertinent. After all, they aren’t frozen in yet, and the last time he was over on _Erebus_ , there was no indication that anyone there believes that they will be. Then again...he knows nothing of Reid, but he’s seen Thomas Blanky up the mast every single day since they left harbour, seen the low-voiced consultations he has with the captain. “Sir,” he says, and then he lifts his gaze a bit further, meets Jopson’s eyes.

Jopson raises his eyebrows.

“Ask your question,” Crozier says in a resigned voice, lifting his cup and gulping the tea back, setting it down to the side for Jopson to refill.

_Don’t think out loud_ , Jopson had advised the previous evening, when Edward had been so close to making a mess of himself that he’d had to pull back completely, had settled for resting his forehead on the other man’s shoulder and breathing heavily, trying to get ahold of himself. _If you’ve something to say, make it blunt. He’d rather you be plain than go on about it._

Edward remembers that brief touch of Jopson’s thigh between his legs, drops his eyes to focus on his own tea a moment, sort through the rag-tag mess of his own thoughts. “When I speak to them,” he says finally, “I’ll avoid bringing up the discrepancies between our ice master’s reports and those on _Erebus_.” He carefully looks over at the captain.

Crozier blinks back at him. “Good,” he says, after a moment. “They can make of it what they will.”

Edward opens his mouth, considers, closes it again. Keeps his further opinions on _Terror_ ’s marine sergeant to himself, because after all, what does it matter? If the man lets his marines get out of control, they’ll deal with the situation then. The fact that Edward feels that to be an inevitability rather than a chance is one that he just supposes he’ll sit with.

“If there’ll be nothing else,” Crozier says.

Edward shakes his head.

“There’s talk over on _Erebus_ ,” Hodgson begins, and Edward quite happily tunes his voice out, lifts his eyes back over Crozier’s shoulder to Jopson.

To Jopson, who is watching him with that same half-smile just barely visible on his face. As Edward looks at him, Jopson’s eyes briefly meet his, and he winks, a movement so fast that Edward very nearly misses it entirely, but, oh, the things it does to his body.

He moves his focus back to Jopson’s hands. The length of his fingers. How Edward had committed the feel of Jopson’s hands on his face to memory the previous evening, only to behave like a reprobate the moment Jopson had slipped out of his cabin, leaning back against the door and bringing himself to crisis before—

—well.

He would say _before Jopson’s footsteps had faded_ , but if there’s one thing he has always been conscious of, it is the absolute silence of Jopson’s movements about the ship, in contrast to Edward’s own lumbering pace. He glances over at Hodgson, who is still talking, now punctuating his words with gestures. He wonders how close they are to being able to conclude this meeting. If Crozier leaves quickly, Irving and Hodgson are likely to go after him, and perhaps that will buy Edward a few moments alone with Jopson. Not enough to do any of the things he’s been thinking about, but perhaps long enough to tell Jopson how ardently Edward admires him, perhaps to tell him—

—well, perhaps there are some things which should not be shared. Edward is painfully, awkwardly aware that he does not recall the last time he did anything which wasn’t precipitated by an exchange of coin, and blushingly, shamefully conscious that at least for last night, it felt as if _he_ was the one being paid for.

His thoughts are scattered by the abrupt sound of the Captain standing up from the table. Edward scrambles to his feet as well, salutes, watches Irving and Hodgson follow behind Crozier as he leaves. Edward makes an effort at looking as though he, too, will leave—standing slowly, pushing in his chair, then the chair beside his.

“I believe that’s my job, sir,” Jopson says mildly next to Edward’s ear, which is quite a usual statement for him to make.

His hand, however, pressing Edward’s into the table, is highly unorthodox. Edward glances down at the place where Jopson pins him to the table, and then toward the door, which is blocked by Jopson’s body, so that he’s now staring directly at Jopson’s chest. At his neck. His jawline.

“You did very well, sir,” Jopson breathes softly in his ear. “Small steps.”

Edward’s face burns hot—desire and shame, all bound up into one. “Mr. Jopson…”

“That’s right, sir,” Jopson says, using his knee to nudge Edward in closer to the table, and then stopping, taking a deep breath.

(They’re standing chest-to-chest now. His eyes are dark, and Edward cannot stop looking at him.)

“If you might allow me a small liberty, sir,” Jopson says, his voice catching slightly on the place where the _t_ should be, only it hasn’t quite escaped his mouth.

Edward nods, his ears ringing.

“I find I am at a disadvantage,” Jopson continues, his speech slowing, and his articulation tightening up, becoming over-exaggerated. “I had the opportunity to walk past your cabin last night, after I had taken my leave. I had meant to stop in, but it sounded as though you were occupied, sir.” He’s faintly breathless as he finishes his sentence, glances over his shoulder at the door behind him.

Edward’s face goes hot. He had been alone. Alone, and debasing himself for the second time that night, apparently more audible than he had believed himself to be. “I apologise if I caused some offence.”

“The opposite, sir,” Jopson says, voice low. “The disadvantage is that I can hardly imagine the occurrence myself, due to a lack of imagery to go with it.”

Edward blinks at him.

Jopson deliberately lowers his gaze, and then flicks his eyes back up at Edward, nudges at Edward’s leg with his knee. “May I, sir?”

Edward swallows, hard. Glances at the door, and then turns in the direction Jopson had indicated, so that his back is to the table, and his chest is exposed to Jopson.

Jopson’s breath catches, and, sly as a mongoose, he steps forward, reaches out, and cradles Edward in his palm—cock, bollocks, everything, expertly handled in Jopson’s hand for an agonizingly erotic breath of time, the blood rushing to that area so quickly that Edward nearly reels with dizziness.

And then it’s over, and Jopson is halfway across the room.

Edward exhales as Jopson steps out into the passageway, greeting Mr. Gibson. Adjusts his jacket. Rolls his shoulders and sets his face into a scowl which instantly melts the moment Jopson steps back into the cabin.

“You’re needed on deck, Lieutenant Little,” Jopson says.

“Of course, Mr. Jopson,” Edward says. “Thank you.”

Jopson nods. Ducks his head, and then raises it just enough so that Edward can see his cat-like smile.

🍎🥕

“As I said,” Tom murmurs. “You were much improved today, sir.”

Little’s breath catches before he exhales, deliberately. “Thank you,” he rasps.

His fingers twitch, tapping against the wood, and Tom eyes the silk neckerchief binding Little’s wrist to the railing. “It’s not too tight, sir?”

Little shakes his head. “‘s good.”

“I’m glad of it,” Tom says softly, returning to the silk around Little’s neck, and the knot that he’s been slowly picking out for the last few moments, all the while with Little fidgeting and shying beneath him like a skittish horse. “I wonder, sir, how much you might have paid for this in the past? You take to it very well, I cannot believe this is your first time.”

The blush on Little’s face deepens from a fetching pink to something closer to crimson, and he names a price more outrageous than Tom might have expected.

Tom raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

Little bites at his lower lip, nods.

“Huh, how about that.” Tom loosens the knot, drags the neckerchief slowly free from Little’s neck, revealing that the flush does, in fact, extend that far down. “Well, then, sir, you’ll know whether I’m best to set this down on your desk, or whether there is another use to which it could be better put.”

Little fidgets against the binding again—not a serious attempt to get out of it, but something which reads, to Tom, more like an attack of nerves, and mumbles something under his breath.

“Ah, sir,” Tom chides. “Your enunciation is quite unclear, for a lieutenant.” He makes no specific mention of how much of a chore his own has become for him—he can feel his East London accent clawing its way up his throat, as though it comes part and parcel with his cockstand, which he is steadfastly ignoring.

Little clears his throat. “My mouth, Mr. Jopson, if you will.” And then, as if to draw attention to it, he laves his tongue over his lips before letting his mouth fall open, glancing down at the neckerchief Tom holds before meeting his eyes directly.

Tom steps in closer, sways away from Little when Little rolls his hips. “Ah, tsk, tsk, sir,” he murmurs. “I would bind you to the bed by your chest if I had the rope for it.”

Little looks at him beseechingly, a small sound escaping his mouth.

Tom smiles. “You’re doing so well, sir,” he says softly, bringing the neckerchief up to Little’s open mouth, and gently feeding it between his lips, using two fingers to press the silk into his hot wet mouth.

He’d rather it were his cock. He’d rather Little were on his knees, right here in his cabin. He’d rather his fingers were combing through Little’s hair, he’d rather rub his cock against Little’s cheek, and listen to Little whine for it. This is all very fine, for now, but he wonders if Little has paid to have another man’s cock in his mouth, or whether he pays only to get his own wet. Some men have preferences.

“Close your mouth, sir,” Tom says softly, and he taps on Little’s chin just to bear his point across. He brings his hands up to the collar of Little’s shirt, begins to carefully undo the buttons.

(Notes with dismay that some of them are loose, and should have been mended already lest they be lost entirely—but he suspects Little won’t begrudge him taking the shirt to mend, afterward, if he asks.)

“Shall I fill the space with my words, sir?” Tom asks as he carefully spreads the neck of Little’s shirt open. “I’ve prevented you from making conversation.”

Little makes a muffled noise through the silk in his mouth, nods his head. There is a bit of saliva collecting at the corner of his mouth, and Tom raises his thumb, wipes it away. Looks at the wet shine of it in the lamplight, and then laps it with his tongue, watches the way Little’s eyelashes flutter, and he pants around the silk neckerchief.

(It tastes, just faintly, of the wine he’d poured for Little at supper.)

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to remove your shirt fully, sir,” Tom notes. He takes in the wide look in Little’s eyes, and then drops his eyes lower, contemplating. “You’ll have to give me a bit more than that, sir—am I to drop the ranks?”

Little shakes his head frantically.

“I’m to keep the ranks,” Tom says, just to confirm.

Little raises an eyebrow.

“Sir,” Tom adds, and he watches the way Little shudders with it, glances down the length of Little’s body, from his nipples—hard, now, and just barely visible through his shirt—down to the place where his cockstand strains against his trousers. He starts pulling up Little’s shirt with one hand, slides the other down the front of Little’s trousers to press his palm against the place where Little’s cock sits.

(He’s dressing to the left today, and the poor thing is trapped down the leg of his trousers, leaking against the fabric there.)

Little exhales heavily through his nose.

Tom pulls his palm away, makes a show of examining it in the light. Based on the location of the wet spot, there’s rather more length to Little’s cock than Tom had imagined, but he likes nothing better than a challenge.

(He wants to know how he measures up against the men that Little pays.)

“Now, sir,” he says, voice low as he finishes exposing Little’s chest, “I did come to you tonight with a dual purpose. I told you that you did well today, and that is true, and you deserve to be rewarded.”

Little whimpers in the back of his throat, tugs at the silk holding his wrists to the railing.

“But I implied that there is further to go, and that is correct.” Tom tugs Little’s shirt down from his shoulders so that it hangs loose around his arms, and simply...looks.

Little is a broad man, with a sailor’s shoulders, and somewhat less hair on his chest than Tom might have expected. His nipples are peaked, but unadorned, and Tom wonders if Little would allow him closer with one of his sewing needles, if there is, somewhere in Little’s cabin, a small box with little gold rings, and bits of chain that Tom might suspend from his body, and tug on when he wants Little to fall to heel.

(Little is panting now, the silk neckerchief wet with saliva, and drooping out of his mouth where his tongue had pushed at it. There’s no way for him to get it back into his mouth with his wrists tied to the bed, and it sticks, wet and soaked through, to his chin.)

“I’m going to unbutton your trousers now, sir,” Tom says. “And I’m going to take your cock in my hand, and I’m going to whisper how I want you to improve in your ear. And you will mark my words, sir.” He steps in closer, just enough so that his thigh grazes against Little’s cockstand, and he revels in the joy when Little grunts through the silk, but does not grind against him. “The longer you delay your release, the more things I will tell you, and the more things I tell you, the closer we are to the time when I will kneel on your cabin floor, and draw your prodigious cock into my mouth.” He tips his head until his lips are right next to Little’s ear—his right ear, with that small indentation where he had once been pierced, which Billy had been so kind to alert him to. Clears his throat. Hesitates a moment—because once this is done, it cannot be undone—but if he has the measure of Little correct, there is the potential of a great payoff.

Tom closes his eyes, undoes the buttons of Little’s trousers with a practiced hand, and then slides his hand inside the fabric, carefully wrapping his fingers around Little’s cock. The thrust of it against his trousers has told no falsehoods—Little’s bare cock is a glorious thing, thick and long and heavy, blood-hot with a prominent vein. Tom waits a moment while Little fidgets in his bonds, and then the moment that he settles, Tom nips at his ear, and says, “I expect you’ll be able to ‘old out for me, sir, knowin’ you’ve spent ever so much of your coin on lower-class men such as I.”

Little gasps, wet and muffled, then tenses a moment before there is a sudden rush of fluid over Tom’s hand.

Tom looks down, blinks, and then immediately reaches his other hand to tug the kerchief out of Little’s mouth before he chokes on it.

There are tears coming from Little’s eyes, and his face is red as he turns his head away, coughs into his own shoulder, and then swallows, slowly collecting himself.

“Well,” Tom says, tugging his hand from inside Little’s trousers, and consciously bringing his accent back to where it should be. “Not much of a lesson tonight, was it, sir?”

“Give me another chance,” Little says softly, his face still red and his eyes bright. “You caught me off-guard, Mr. Jopson.”

“You may call me Tom, if it pleases you,” Tom says. He lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers, which glisten in the light. “Let me just clean up, sir, and—”

And then it’s his turn to be surprised, for Little presses as forward as much as he can, and begins licking his own spend off Tom’s fingers.

It’s an oddly pleasant sensation, and Tom turns his hand to let Little get the backside of it as well. Once Little pulls away, Tom brings his hand closer to the lamp, checks to ensure that it has been tidied. Then he takes a calming breath, and bends his head to the task of picking out the knots in the silk binding Little to the rail, as the knots have tightened significantly under his fidgeting.

“I’ll come back again tomorrow night, sir,” he says. “We can try again.”

“If you’ll allow me,” Little rasps. “I would propose a different arrangement, for tonight. Since I, er.”

“Spent,” Tom offers, loosing Little’s left wrist and moving to the knot securing his right.

Little ducks his head, shame and delight warring on his face. “Yes,” he agrees, voice husky and low and _pleased_. “I’d thought perhaps if I looked after you...that you could tell me what you wished to tell me while my mouth was otherwise occupied, and I was unable to interrupt?”

Tom stills his fingers just before he releases the second knot. It’s not what he had _planned_ , certainly...but a little bit of attention there wouldn’t exactly go amiss either. He tilts his head, considers the blush on Little’s face, the way he’s acquiesced to every request, and, most importantly, the way Tom emphasising his rough accent had hastened his arousal.

(Some men want to be praised and coddled, and some men want to be shamed. Tom is beginning to suspect that Little is one of the latter, and the thought sends a heavy thrill through him.)

Tom lowers his voice. “Are you more practiced at that than you are at biding your time with another man’s hand down your trousers, sir?”

Little offers him a shy smile, his blush deepening, and his teeth worrying at his lip. “...yes?”

“Well, sir,” Tom says, releasing Little’s right hand from the rail, and leaning back against the bed himself before gesturing to his own trousers. “Please demonstrate.”

He expects—well. He doesn’t know what he expects, because if Billy had told him “Lieutenant Little pays for sex on shore”, Tom would have laughed so hard he choked, but now?

Oh, God take him, now Little goes to his knees like he’s been waiting for the opportunity to do it, with an ease that Tom has never before seen on his body. Little leans in and presses his face against Tom’s trousers and _inhales_ , and Tom’s knees go a bit funny for a moment in a way he hadn’t quite intended they go.

“May I pull you free?” Little asks, and his voice is a rough rasp, his breath hot through Tom’s trousers.

“You may, sir,” Tom allows, and though he should be organizing his thoughts so that he knows what to say, he takes a moment to just—watch. To watch Little’s thick fingers fumble on his buttons, to watch the unexpected eagerness play across Little’s face, the way he furrows his brow when the button doesn’t come free quite as he expected, the soft hitch of breath when he bares Tom’s cock and just...sits back on his heels and looks at it a moment. “Yeah?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Little murmurs, and he puts his hands on Tom’s thighs for balance, rubs the side of his face against the length of Tom’s cock.

“Ah, ah,” Tom says softly, reaching for Little’s hair and tugging at it. “Mind your whiskers, sir, you’re quite rough.”

“Sorry,” Little says, a rushed apology that sounds more like a moan than words.

“You promised me quiet, sir,” Tom teases, and he fists his hand in Little’s hair, tugs his mouth over his cock. It’s rough—Little goes easily, but his teeth scrape along Tom’s shaft for a moment before Little corrects for it. “There you are, there you are.”

Little’s rhythm stutters a moment before he takes a quick, gasping breath, and then redoubles his efforts on Tom’s cock, one of his hands dropping between his legs and then not making a reappearance.

Tom tilts his head, peers down and confirms that Little is—well. He hasn’t managed another cockstand, not quite, but he’s touching himself regardless, his cock either starting to fatten under his fingers, or not quite fully softened after his orgasm. It must be horribly sensitive, but Little handles it like he likes the pain, like he’s the type of man who wants to be pushed past his limits and, oh, the conversations that Tom will have with him!

Not now, though.

Now, it’s time for work. He tugs on Little’s hair, taps on Little’s spit-sodden chin with his other hand. “Mind me now, Lieutenant,” he purrs. “And let me tell you how things will be on _Terror_.”

🥕🍎

The next weeks are a mix of haze and clarity for Edward. Clarity, because he feels confident and focused on deck, his mind a series of lists on how to be more efficient, work harder, bring everyone in line.

And haze, because Jopson rewards it for him in sexual congress, and Edward can hardly think in the evenings and the early hours of the morning for wanting him.

He walks the deck, and he thinks of Jopson’s hand on his cock. Watches the ice, and feels the trickle of oil down the inside of his thigh, where he’s prepared himself so that he can be ready for Jopson at a moment’s notice. At night, he sleeps in his berth, face down in his pillow in case he is to dream—and he has woken up, more than once, to Jopson’s bare hand on his hip, and the steward’s voice in his ear.

This is one of those nights.

“Sir,” Jopson says softly in his ear. “I heard you cry out, sir; are you well?”

Edward blinks, rolls over onto his back. The lamp on his desk is lit, but Jopson stands out of the light. “Missed you,” he says blearily.

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Tom says, his voice soft. “It has been mere hours.”

Edward pushes himself up onto his elbows, lets the sheet fall, and runs a hand through his hair. He listens to the sound of the bell echoing up on deck. He counts off the number of times it tolls, and then raises an eyebrow at Tom.

That curious little half-smile plays about Tom’s mouth as he deftly strips off his trousers. “Perhaps a few more than mere,” he allows, hanging them on the back of Edward’s chair. “But I started something I was unable to finish, earlier, and I mean to see it through.”

The berth creaks as Tom kneels on the end of it, brackets Edward’s feet between his bare knees. The scar on his thigh is just barely visible in the dim light of the lamp when the tails of his shirt slide out of the way, and his hair has fallen forward over his eyes.

Edward’s breath quickens. He wants to pull his knees up to expose himself. He wants to wait to be told. Wants to recite the Articles while Tom works his oil-slick fingers into Edward’s arse, wants to—

“This,” Tom says, voice low, and his hand grazing over the portion of the sheet which is covering Edward’s cockstand. “I left this unfinished, and after you were so _good_ today, sir.”

Edward huffs out a breath, bites on his lip to remind himself to keep his hips pressed to the thin mattress.

Tom smooths his palm up the sheet. “Unless,” he muses, “sir took things into his own hands.”

Edward’s face burns, and he ducks his head, turns away from the lamplight as his cock twitches.

Tom rises up on his knees, and then plants his hands, one on either side of Edward’s torso. “Tell me, lieutenant,” he purrs, his voice roughening. “‘Ow’d you keep yourself when I were called away?”

Edward bites back a groan. “Well,” he manages, tightening his hands in the sheets. “I, er.”

Tom slides his hands down Edward’s chest, widens them to skate down the sides of Edward’s hips, and then down to Edward’s knees, where he hooks his fingers under sheet and knees both, pushes Edward’s knees back to his chest, and presses the sheet against Edward’s thighs, smooths it over his arse.

Edward’s breath catches, and he lets his head fall back against the bulkhead, revelling in the sharp jolt of pain.

“Odd spot for the sheet to be damp,” Tom murmurs, and before Edward can say anything in response, Tom pulls sharply at the linen, whipping it away and exposing everything all at once—Edward’s cockstand, perking to full hardness now that it’s out in the open air; his bollocks, tightening in the cool air of the cabin; the bite marks Tom has left on his thighs, shades ranging from yellow and brown to purple and blue-black; and then the evidence that gives him away entire—the pucker of his arse, not clenched as tight as it should be, and shining with remnants of the grease he keeps in a tin under his mattress.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Edward says helplessly, fidgeting, and letting his knees fall wider.

“Oh, _sir_ ,” Tom breathes. He leans forward and braces himself on Edward’s stomach, his fingers splayed wide, taking himself in hand with the other. “You’re so good for me.” He ducks his head, his fingers touching Edward’s arse briefly, as if he’s feeling out the shape of it before carefully pressing his fingers inside. “How much did you take?”

“Three,” Edward manages, panting. There’s a hint of pain to the stretch, and he delights in it, presses up against Tom to hasten the sting. “Three fingers, and thoughts of your mouth on my prick.”

“Did you spend, sir?” Tom asks, flicking his gaze from Edward’s arse to his cock, which is threatening to leak onto his stomach.

Edward shakes his head, immediately realizes that Tom cannot see him. “Waited for you.”

Tom curls his fingers inside Edward, and Edward bites down on his own lip to stifle a cry. God, he wants to move, wants to shift, wants Tom to plant his hand on the middle of his chest and fuck him until he can no longer breathe, until he’s panting wetly into his own pillow, all the while while Tom watches. Sometimes, Tom has Edward roll over, presses Edward’s face into the pillow and whispers filth in his ear, but he’s made no indication that he wants Edward to turn tonight, and that means Edward will be exposed to Tom’s steady gaze the entire time, burning with shame and arousal in a heady mix.

“You knew I’d be back, sir,” Tom murmurs.

“Hoped you would be,” Edward says softly. He would have suffered without it as well, suffered through a long day tomorrow of being unfulfilled, if he needed to, if Tom had asked it of him.

Tom grins at him, a quick sharp expression that is replaced by his customary seriousness almost immediately. He shifts the angle of his wrist, sending a pulse of pleasure jolting up Edward’s spine. “What do you think, sir? I have lessons to teach, yet, and you look entirely too tense to listen to them at this juncture.”

“I’m,” Edward protests quietly—but then Tom curls his fingers again, thrusting firmly _in_ , and Edward’s breath catches in his chest as his legs twitch. He throws an arm over his face, clutches the sheets with his other hand, tries to keep his knees apart even though his every impulse is to clench them closed, curl up around Tom and ride out his inevitable crisis that way.

Tom shifts his other hand, pinning Edward down and leaning all his weight on Edward’s chest, fucking his fingers into Edward relentlessly. “Please stay down for me, sir,” he murmurs. “Let it happen. You know I’m good to you.”

“Please,” Edward gasps.

“Uncover your face.”

Edward whacks his hand against the bulkhead in his haste to expose himself to Tom’s steady gaze, and the pain only sharpens his arousal. He can hardly move under Tom’s weight, and there is a slow ache on his sternum. He hopes it will bruise. He hopes there will be an imprint of Tom’s hand right in the middle of his chest. He hopes for an opportunity to be shirtless in front of everyone so that they can see it.

“Very good, sir,” Tom says, leaning into him heavily. “Rather messy, but that’s exactly what I expect from you, isn’t it?”

Edward nods, frantically, clutches the sheets. He’s not been asked to touch his cock, and it aches wonderfully. He can feel it smearing wetness on the hair on his stomach.

“Did you pay them to descend on you like I do?” Tom asks, his voice gone throaty. He pulls his fingers from inside Edward for a brief moment, leaving Edward clenching on nothing and twitching in the sheets, and then presses his fingers back in, re-coated with oil. “Did you pay one to stuff your mouth with cock and another to play with your nipples, sir?”

Edward sobs out a _yes_ , arches back up against Tom’s weight. He wants to be touched, he wants to be hit, he wants Tom to sit on his face and whisper filth in his ear. He wants to take Tom back to London, to Greenhithe, to the brothels he went to, wants Tom to organize everything and command everyone that comes into the room to take Edward apart to Tom’s exacting specifications.

(He wants to tell Tom about the time he was tied to the bed while the madam brought an endless parade of blindfolded men into the room, directed all of them in how they should debase him, made him debase himself while they listened, instructed them how to—)

“Touch your chest, sir,” Tom orders, his voice low and soft. “Pinch them.”

Edward scratches himself in his haste to comply, bites his tongue so he doesn’t moan aloud. Twists his nipples and arches up into the pain, feeling Tom’s hand slip on his chest—it’s probably because Edward is sweating—it’s probably because—he’s—

“Right _there_ , sir,” Tom says breathlessly, and Edward bites back a scream, everything coming to an epiphany in his gut, centered around his cock.

It’s a harsh orgasm—pain mixed with pleasure, his nails scratching on his chest and his cock throbbing as he empties himself, clenching down on Tom’s fingers. He tastes blood in his mouth, and as he relaxes back into the bed, he runs his tongue along his teeth, tastes his devotion to Tom.

(It’s very good.)

He can feel his release trickling down the side of his hip, and there’s oil smeared on the inside of his thighs. It feels like something in his chest has let loose, and the languid feeling that envelops his body is the most relaxed he’s been in a long time. He settles the soles of his feet on the bed.

“Sir?” Tom asks, voice ragged. He’s wiping the oil from his fingers on a cloth.

Edward tilts his hips, lets his knees fall apart. “Please,” he begs. He squeezes his eyes shut, feels tears burning in the corners of them. “ _Tom_. I want—”

“Is it this,” Tom asks, voice low. He shuffles closer on the bed, nudges the blunt head of his cock against Edward’s hole. “You need it, don’t you, sir?”

“I need it,” Edward pleads. He feels stretched out, oversensitive. “I need your cock, I—”

“Then take it, sir,” Tom says, and he presses his cock inside Edward, deeper than his fingers had been, and starts fucking him in a slow, steady rhythm.

God, the shift in Tom is instantaneous. His hands are steady on Edward’s knees, and Edward watches as Tom tips his head upward, his hair falling back from his face and his eyes closing. Tom fucks him perfectly every time, and this time is no exception. The tension melts from his shoulders, and his hips rock into Edward at a steady pace that would be a tease if Edward were still hard.

Now that he’s already come, it’s agonizingly perfect. Edward tightens his grip on the sheets, breathes through each intense stroke, tries not to twitch his hips. He is a vessel, he is a vessel for Tom’s cock, for his come if he’s good, for his—

“Control,” Tom breathes, and then he tips his head, looks directly at Edward. “Your next lesson is on control, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, I... _ah_...I’m listening.”

“Rein the others in,” Tom says, his voice dark, and his neck starting to flush as he exerts himself.

“T-the—?” Edward swallows, pants. Tries to focus.

“The wardroom,” Tom says, his grip tightening on Edward’s knees. “It’s a disgrace, sir.” He starts to thrust faster, getting a bit deeper each time. “A veritable circus. Pull them in under your control. Maintain a sense of decorum. You understand what a sense of decorum looks like, don’t you, sir?”

Edward gasps out an affirmation, hazards a glimpse down at their bodies and—oh, oh, God, his cock is thickening again, smearing on his stomach as Tom fucks into him. “I do, I—”

“Not like this,” Tom says, his voice low. “There’s no sense of decorum present in this cabin at all, sir, only debasement.”

Edward nods his head, gasps in another breath. It’s all he can do to stay still, not to thrash and flail in the berth. He’s so sensitive that it’s as though he can feel every hair on his body prickling, can feel every inch of Tom’s cock as Tom thrusts into him. He wants more—what he has is too much—he can feel his body trying to muster another cockstand—it won’t happen, it won’t—it might—

“Do you know, sir, what a sense of decorum is meant to look like?”

Edward clenches the sheets in his fists, arches his back. “Like you,” he manages. “Looks—like you.”

Tom’s breath catches for a moment, and then he squeezes Edward’s knees, leans forward over him and latches his teeth into the place where Edward’s shoulder meets his neck, and the bright lancing glorious pain of it is enough that Edward shudders, feeling seed weakly pulse from his cock for a second time as Tom comes inside him, working himself through his own orgasm with short little thrusts of his hips.

(Edward can smell Tom’s sweat, can feel the places where their bodies are sticky. It’s glorious.)

Edward turns his head, presses a kiss against the side of Tom’s face.

“Again, sir?” Tom murmurs wetly into his neck. “I’m impressed.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Edward says. “But you brought me there regardless.” He revels in the slick wet slide of it as Tom shifts and pulls out, clenches his arse to keep as much of Tom in there as he can.

“Still,” Tom murmurs. “You must be sore, Edward.”

(His Christian name sounds like a declaration of love on Tom’s lips.)

Edward wraps his arm around Tom’s shoulder, hauls him in closer and breathes in the scent of his hair. Lifts his hand and brushes back his forelock. “I assure you I’ll conduct myself with all the decorum I can muster tomorrow.”

“Today,” Tom corrects gently, before pressing his lips to Edward’s, and murmuring against them. “I’m counting on it, sir.”

🍎🥕

The trick to eavesdropping is to appear as though one isn't doing it. Tom is an expert. It doesn’t do to linger in passageways or outside doors without a reason, but being a steward gives him plenty of purpose.

For instance, it wouldn’t do to bring dirty glasses into the great cabin, and so if Tom lingers in the passageway cleaning them, that’s only an indication of his diligence. After all, the light is very good in this one specific spot, which happens to be very conveniently located for auditory reasons.

“—looks as though his authority is being undermined,” Irving is saying. His voice carries perfectly well through the closed door.

“I agree entirely,” Hodgson says. “There’s something to be said for the art of politics, as it were.”

“Is the report unclear?” That’s Edward, his tone ringing firmly in the room.

Tom smiles, holds the glass up to the light as the conversation in the cabin dies down to low murmured voices a moment before Edward’s voice cuts through again.

“—talked to the ice master?”

“To Mr. Reid, yes. The last time I was on _Erebus_ I was with Fitzjames and we both think—and we’re supported by Sir Franklin as well—”

“I’ve spoken to Mr. Blanky directly,” Edward says. “This isn’t his first time in the Arctic, and I’ve a mind to believe him. If he says we’ll be frozen in, we’ll be frozen in, and it’s best if we prepare for that. Captain Crozier is of that mind as well, and _that_ is how we are going to conduct this meeting.”

Tom feels a ripple of pleasure go down the back of his neck—whether it’s due to the perfect shine he’s just obtained on the last cut crystal glass, or the firmness in Edward’s voice is no matter. The point remains: things are improving.

He’s just arranging the now-polished glasses on his tray when he hears a heavy set of footsteps approaching, glances up as Captain Crozier approaches.

“The sooner we start,” Crozier mutters.

“Sir,” Tom says, nodding his head, and following the captain into the great cabin, pleased that the chatter immediately dies down as soon as the door opens, and even more pleased that Edward doesn’t so much as glance in Tom’s direction, just rises fluidly from his chair as the captain enters. He’s looking particularly handsome today, and so much of that is due to his posture. His ability to smoothly sit back down again is a bit of a wonder—after what Tom has put him through this week, it’s a testament to his stubbornness that he’s able to sit comfortably at all.

Edward’s eyes land briefly on Tom, his face pinking slightly before he looks back to the papers on the table. He does blush very prettily. Tom turns to the sideboard, fills a glass of whisky as he smiles.

“Let’s get this over with,” Crozier grumbles, sitting down heavily, and reaching for the glass that Tom seamlessly sets down in front of him. “Report.”

Edward clears his throat, glances down at the papers ahead of him. Hesitates, and then looks up, makes eye contact with the captain. “Everything is functioning as expected. Lieutenant Hodgson will report on the watch roster and a few discrepancies he’s noticed in regards to duty owed, and Lieutenant Irving has a report on the stores.”

Tom carefully notes Edward’s posture, and the soft sound of his foot tapping under the table, and files all of that information away for later, when he has Edward a little more...pliant.

“Well,” Crozier says, his voice a little less gruff than what it has been. “Where do you propose we start?”

“Lieutenant Hodgson,” Edward says immediately. “Please.”

Tom busies himself filing glasses for the lieutenants as Hodgson starts to speak, and hands them out, careful to avoid Hodgson’s hands as he gestures while he gives his report, and to avoid Irving’s person in its entirety, which allows him to very lightly brush against Edward.

Edward tenses slightly, and Tom nudges him again, feather-light, with his knee, before moving on, because it shan’t do to linger—but, more importantly, Edward responds ever so nicely to Tom when Tom doesn’t stay, and a bit of denial this afternoon will go a long way this evening.

As far as meetings go, it’s much improved from even a fortnight ago. Edward says very little, but Tom watches him confirm everything that’s being said against the items written down on the paper in front of him. When Hodgson finishes speaking and Irving begins, Edward leans over to the second lieutenant, pointing at something on his report.

Tom checks the Captain’s glass again. He hasn’t needed to refill it yet, but he’s ready to do so regardless. There’s a button on the Captain’s coat that needs to be mended again, and two on one of his shirts. There is the matter of Lieutenant Little, and the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks. The evening meal is still to be finalized, contingent on whether anyone will be coming over from _Erebus_ for it.

Edward clears his throat, and Tom allows his focus to shift to Edward’s hands, to the spot of ink on his thumb, and to the corresponding smudge just barely visible on his cuff. Fantasizes about a world where he has enough time to do Edward’s laundry, to wash and mend every one of his shirts, to scrub the stains from his skin and reprimand him for his sloppiness. After all, it’s hardly fair that Billy should bear the brunt of the work when it’s _Edward_ who is careless.

“I’ve begun quiet preparations for being frozen in as early as next week,” Edward says, “based on our prior conversations. Those preparations stay between those of us in this room, with the exception of Mr. Blanky, who is being consulted as the time draws nearer. Everything else we’ve discussed today, with the exception of the ice, is documented here.” He slides the papers across the table, looks to the captain, and then looks, ever so briefly, to Tom.

Oh, Tom is going to reward him tonight.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Crozier says, frowning at the stack of papers now in front of him. He moves his fingers vaguely. “Dismissed.”

Tom watches them go—Irving with his head down, Hodgson in conversation with Edward about a show he’d seen back in London, and Edward nodding vaguely before casting his eyes back towards Tom.

Tom winks at him, and then busies himself with clearing the glasses from the table so that they may be washed and polished again. He listens to Crozier flip through the pages of the report, listens to the absence of sound where Crozier’s glass would normally be picked up and set down.

(There’s a scratch just barely visible on the edge of the great table, and Tom glares at it. There’s nothing he can do about it at present, but he does wish there would be more care taken.)

He glances back at Crozier, at his still-full glass, and then meets Crozier’s eyes when Crozier sets the report down, taps it with his finger.

“Do you remember that conversation I had with you up on deck—of course you do.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom agrees.

“I...may have been hasty in my judgement of the staffing.”

“Sometimes these things just take time, sir,” Tom says blandly, his face a mask of innocence. “Though perhaps it might do to let Commander Fitzjames know that?”

Crozier rolls his eyes. “He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“Perhaps it would distract him from the sniper story,” Tom offers.

Crozier barks out a laugh. “Yes, well, I supposed if I need to shock him into silence, a compliment will do as nicely as anything.” He stands up, tosses back his drink, and sets the empty glass back down. “I’ll likely be meeting with him late tonight over the charts, he persists in arguing with me over them. You should use the opportunity to get some sleep.”

“Of course, sir,” Tom agrees, having absolutely no intention of doing so.

🥕🍎

“Tip your chin, please, sir,” Mr. Gibson says.

Edward closes his eyes, looks up so Mr. Gibson can adjust his collar. The adrenaline from the meeting earlier still hasn’t worn off, and it’s physically painful to suppress the need to fidget, but he’ll have to. Sir Franklin and Commander Fitzjames will be over for supper, possibly the lieutenants as well, and they’ll be sitting shoulder to shoulder for the entire meal. No space to tap his foot under the table, and all the opportunity to behave _with decorum_ so that Tom will notice.

“There,” Mr. Gibson says quietly.

Edward lowers his chin, stretches his neck. “That will be all, Mr. Gibson.”

Mr. Gibson nods, and melts out of the room just as silently as he’d entered, leaving the door half-slid open. Edward frowns, steps over and slides the door shut, and then turns back, noting a folded piece of paper on his desk. He picks it up, unfolds it, face heating up the moment he recognizes the neat printing.

_Decorum observed._

_If you could choose from any menu—what would it be?_

A shiver runs down his back as he refolds the note, and carefully pockets it. He knows the menus of which Tom speaks—they are a topic which Tom comes back to on a regular basis, when he’s deep inside Edward, searching out all the places Edward is sensitive and pressing on them with his fingers or his cock or his words. They’ve talked about some of the things Edward has had, some of the things he hasn’t, how much particular acts cost, whether Edward had paid more to be on one end of the act or the other.

If Edward could choose anything...well, he has some ideas.

One idea, in particular.

🍎🥕

“Er, certain charts have been mentioned,” Fitzjames says. “I shall stay and puzzle it out, then. I’ll take a gig back in...once we’re through.” He glances over at Sir John, who waves his fingers magnanimously, granting permission.

“If you must,” Crozier says gruffly, before glancing at Tom and raising his eyebrow. _Told you so._

(The glass at his hand is still full, and it’s not because Tom has been exerting himself.)

Tom shrugs, careful to frame it so that Crozier is the only one who can see it. Well, Edward would be able to, if he were looking...which, oddly, he isn’t. He knows Edward got the note and knows he’s being rewarded tonight...is it the nature of the reward that is troubling him?

As if on cue, Edward glances up, his face going pink above his whiskers, before he reaches for his wine glass and stares into it without drinking, still blushing furiously.

Well, isn’t that something. For Edward to be so undone before they’ve even entered his cabin...perhaps there’s something unusual he’d like to request. Perhaps tonight is one of the rare times Edward wishes to be the active partner, which is certainly acceptable to Tom. After all, it’s meant to be a reward, and it is very pleasing to watch Edward exert himself, with his hair loose and falling about his face, and his hand curled around Tom’s cock, his body at war with itself as he tries desperately to please Tom without succumbing to his own orgasm. Tom likes the feeling of Edward’s sweat-damp hair against the palm of his hand after, likes the salt-wet of the tears he wipes from Edward’s face.

“Well, that’s agreeable,” Sir John is saying. “Thank you, Francis.”

Crozier nods, standing, and Tom steps back as everyone else in the room rises, and begins the process of filing out, giving Tom the space he needs to get everything cleared away. The meal had gone over well, based on the scraped-clean plates, and Tom files that away to ensure that he remembers to let Diggle know that his work was appreciated. The wine appears to have been appreciated as well—Fitzjames, Hodgson, Irving, and Gore had all enjoyed extra glasses, and Edward appears to have been the only one other than Sir John who has let his go mostly untouched, though Tom suspects that’s for rather different reasons. Either way, he wipes the rim of Edward’s glass with his cloth, sets it down, and then begins stacking the rest of the dishes.

“Sorry,” Billy says breathlessly as he enters. “Got caught up.”

“No apology needed,” Tom says. He tips his head toward the full glass at the edge of the table. “Set that aside for you.”

“Ta,” Billy says gratefully. He takes a sip of it, offers it to Tom. “It’s quite good, actually.”

“You go ahead,” Tom says. “The quicker we can get this cleared away, the quicker the captain and the commander can start their meeting.”

Billy nods, downs the glass, and focuses on the other side of the table. With the two of them working together, it’s quick enough to get everything cleared away, and Billy offers to take the last run of plates down to the galley on his own. The caulker’s mate lurking about by the stove hadn’t gone unnoticed by Tom, and he suspects that factors into Billy’s decision—but, then, Tom’s ability to get a few minutes to refresh himself encourages him into letting Billy finish things up, when he would normally want to be the last person out of the great cabin.

Still, though.

The lamp is on in Little’s cabin, and the steady pulse of his pacing footsteps is just audible beyond the door. Tom hesitates a moment, and then takes the remaining steps to the closed door of the great cabin, tips his ear against it and listens for a moment.

“—sent him away,” Crozier says gruffly. “Figured you might want the dignity of privacy.”

“Please,” Fitzjames says dryly. “That’s more empathy than I thought you were capable of.”

Tom nods, smooths down his waistcoat and steps away from the door. He’s not needed there tonight, which means that he can apply himself fully to the place where he _is_ needed. He doesn’t tap on the door to Edward’s cabin, not anymore—merely slides it aside enough to slip in, and then shuts it behind him just as quickly.

Edward looks up, his face immediately relaxing. He’s in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat off, and his finger holding his place in the book he’s been reading as he paces. He’s removed his neckerchief, and undone the top buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest. “Tom,” he says, relieved. He dog-ears the page of the book—and that’s a habit Tom will break him of, no matter how long it takes—and slips it back onto the shelf next to his berth before gesturing to his desk. “Got that for you, if you like.”

Tom looks where he’s pointing. There’s a bottle of port there, and an empty glass. He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been listening rather closely, sir, haven’t you.”

Edward licks his lips. “Yes,” he says. “You note your own preferences so rarely.”

Tom smiles, pleased, and uncorks the bottle, pours himself a glass. He leans back against the desk, the gentle rock of the ship as easy as anything to shift with, brings the glass to his lips. Watches the way Edward watches him, secrets those glances away and tucks them into his heart, where they’re more a warmth than the port.

The port is good too, though.

“Go on, then, sir,” Tom says softly, swirling the port gently in the glass before raising it to his lips again.

Edward exhales. Tugs his shirt from his trousers, and then off over his head, exposing his bare chest, his shoulders, his arms. His wrists, the right one of which still bears a small bruise from where he’d persisted in pulling against the ropes even after Tom had warned him not to. The bite mark above Edward’s nipple has faded to a yellowish colour now, mostly eaten up in the lamplight, but Tom still knows it’s there, and if he has the opportunity to press on it with his fingers, well, Edward will know it too.

Then he kneels, shuffles forward on his knees until he’s at Tom’s feet.

Well, then.

They’ve done this before—Tom fully dressed, Edward with his shirt off and his cock out, touching himself under Tom’s scrutinizing gaze. It makes Tom light-headed, all that power underneath him, the lineage of Edward’s good breeding all narrowed to a needle-point where he’s driven to debase himself at Tom’s feet. But Edward doesn’t unbutton his uniform trousers. Instead, he plants the palms of his hands on Tom’s thighs, sways inward and inhales deep.

“I’m afraid I washed up before I came, sir,” Tom says, voice low. He takes another long sip of the port, wonders mildly where Edward had purchased it. Madrid? The Balkans?

“Still smell good,” Edward murmurs, his breath hot through Tom’s trousers. He looks up through thick eyelashes, and heavy-lidded eyes. “Earlier. The note said _anything_.”

“It did, sir,” Tom agrees. The warmth of the port has spread through his entire body, now, in a very appealing manner. “You did particularly well today, and I’m more than happy to spread my legs for you.”

Edward goes crimson. “With a difference,” he says. Swallows. Peers back up at Tom while he reaches for Tom’s boots, starts loosening them. “This is...it may be new to you.”

“It may not be, sir,” Tom counters. He finishes the last of the port, swallows it down and then runs his tongue along his teeth.

“Ah,” Edward says, gliding his hands up Tom’s thighs to his buttons, which he undoes much more deftly now than when they started their liaisons. “But you’ve neither offered it to me, nor requested that I do it to you.”

“That makes it _new_ , then, does it, sir?”

Edward shifts on the floor, his embarrassment just as charming as it has always been—more so, perhaps, now that Tom can coax it from him so readily. “On my bed, please,” he says softly.

“On all fours,” Tom teases, slipping off his boots, and then his trousers, which he hangs on the back of Edward’s chair. The port has left him warm enough that he undoes his waistcoat as well, strips that and the shirt off so that he is fully nude.

Edward takes a measured inhalation, and Tom glances over his shoulder as he climbs into the berth, watches Edward absently stroke his own cock through his trousers. The line of it is visible now, pressing against the fabric—a beautiful, fat thing that Tom finds himself thinking of in his idle hours more often than not.

“Facing me, please,” Edward says, an odd anticipation in his voice. He clears his throat, and then reaches under his desk and produces a second pillow.

Tom raises his eyebrow.

“Complained to Mr. Gibson about my back,” Edward admits, clutching the additional pillow in his hand, ashamed and proud both.

“Tsk, tsk, sir,” Tom says, but he lies back in Edward’s bed anyway, into clean sheets and a pillow that smells of Edward’s hair. “Won’t you take off your trousers?”

Edward shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“It didn’t keep you from spending last time, sir,” Tom notes, and oh, the way Edward shudders with pleasure, his hands tightening on the pillow, is very, very rewarding.

(Edward had looked very well, afterward, nude and flushed and kiss-bitten, scrubbing his own emission from his trousers in the washbasin with tepid water.)

“Have mercy,” Edward says softly, and then he glances up from under his eyelashes, looking a little lost.

“Come up here, sir,” Tom says softly, and he pats the bed next to him. “Show me what you want.”

Edward sets his jaw, and crawls on top of Tom. There isn’t room in the berth for them to lie beside each other, and they’re a brief tangle of legs until Edward shifts to sit at the foot of the bed.

Tom raises his eyebrows, tips his head at the pillow Edward is still holding over his trousers. “Is part of your reward that I’m not to look?”

“Oh,” Edward says. “No, it’s...I’m…” He swallows. “It’s only just occurred to me that it’s possible that you _have_ done this before, and didn’t care for it.”

Tom shifts until he’s propped up on his elbows, waits.

“And,” Edward continues, slowly, “if that’s the case…”

“It’s your reward,” Tom says gently, and he wiggles his foot underneath the pillow, rubs his big toe against Edward’s clothed thigh. “I’ll let you know if it’s not to my taste.”

Edward nods, bites his lip, nods again. Lets go of the pillow, finally, and runs his hands down Tom’s calves, caressing the muscle there. “You’ve been on your feet all day?”

“Most days, sir,” Tom replies, lying back on Edward’s pillow. There’s something to be said for the particular scent of his pillowcase—warm, and comforting. Not as good as the ability to share a bed with Edward—but that’s something for after their return, after they’re back in England.

“Close your eyes,” Edward suggests. “Let me rub your legs?”

Tom smiles fondly, lets his eyes fall shut, and relaxes into the feeling of Edward touching him. He’s far more sure now than he had been when they’d begun to be intimate, but he touches Tom as though he’s mimicking something he’s had done on himself, not something he’s practiced at doing. It’s charming, the way Edward runs his hands up and down Tom’s legs, the way he—oh, that’s his lips, pressed to Tom’s knee.

That’s his tongue, tracing down Tom’s shin while his hands caress the back of Tom’s calf.

“Lift your bum,” Edward murmurs.

Tom plants his feet on the bed, lifts his hips and lets Edward slide the pillow underneath him. He thinks of Edward penetrating him, of the stretch of Edward’s thick cock, the way Edward bites his lip, the irregular pace of his thrusting, imagines gold bars pierced through Edward’s nipples and the way it would feel to trace the metal under his fingertips—

“You have beautiful knees,” Edward murmurs, and he presses Tom’s leg back, kisses the back of Tom’s thigh. “Strong thighs,” he says against Tom’s skin.

Tom sighs, shifts and lets his legs fall open. It will be Edward’s fingers, first, slicked with oil. Then the blunt head of his cock, the slide of his shaft inside Tom. It will be—

Edward sighs against his skin, presses a trail of kisses along the back of Tom’s leg. His other hand has moved to Tom’s bollocks, carefully shifting them in his palm. Perhaps he’ll suck Tom’s cock as he slicks his fingers and slides them inside, or perhaps he’ll use his hand. Perhaps—

“You’ll like this,” Edward says softly, pressing a kiss to Tom’s bollocks, and then rubbing the spot with his thumb. “I hope you’ll like this.”

Tom lifts his head from the pillow, expecting to see Edward’s mouth enveloping his cock, but instead he watches as Edward presses his lips to Tom’s bollocks, a small feather-light line of kisses down to—

“Edward?” Tom asks softly.

Edward makes a questioning noise against Tom’s skin. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. His tongue reaches out now, laps at Tom’s skin. At his bollocks.

Lower.

Tom reaches down, puts his hand in Edward’s hair and just...rests it there, stroking Edward’s hair with his thumb. Edward makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, presses his lips between Tom’s legs, and then tongues over his arse.

Tom’s breath catches in the back of his throat, his fingers curling in Edward’s hair. It’s a strange sensation, a foreign one, but pleasant all the same, and made moreso by the careful focus and dedication that Edward brings to the act.

“Yes?” Edward murmurs.

“Yeah,” Tom says, tugging Edward’s hair, pulling him in closer. “Show me, sir.” His cock is hardening against his stomach, but he resists the urge to stroke himself.

Edward whines against his skin, redoubles his efforts between Tom’s legs, kissing and suckling and lapping at Tom’s arse. Tom doesn’t recall ever being this sensitive there before—he feels every pull of Edward’s tongue, the drag of his whiskers against Tom’s skin. It’s better than fingers. It’s nearly as good as Edward’s cock. There’s something so wonderfully intimate about it, about the eager way Edward presses his face against Tom, the short huffing breaths that he takes in between licks.

Edward reaches up and curls his fingers around Tom’s cock, and Tom shudders, arches up into his hand. It feels good, it feels like Edward is savouring him, it feels—wet and warm and delightfully sensitive.

“More,” Tom says.

Edward doesn’t immediately respond, just continues the small licks at Tom’s arse. Tom tugs on Edward’s hair, and Edward moans and reaches between his own legs, and that won’t do, that simply won’t do at all.

“Up,” Tom says, sharpening his voice and punctuating it with a sharp pull to Edward’s hair.

Edward comes up smiling, his eyes unfocused and his face flushed. His chin is wet with his own saliva. He looks a mess; Tom’s very own mess. Tom sits up, one hand still holding Edward tightly by the hair, and pats Edward’s cheek with his other hand.

“You like it?” Edward asks, his voice hazy.

“Very much,” Tom says, voice low.

“Hoped you would,” Edward says, his mouth widening out into a crooked grin. “Is it unfamiliar to you?”

Tom doesn’t dignify that with a response—Edward is smart, he can figure out the answer on his own, when he’s not drunk on his own arousal—and instead tightens his grip in Edward’s hair. “Hand out of your trousers.”

Edward nods, blushing harder when the movement yanks on his hair. He pulls his hand from inside his trousers, leaving only the thick line of his cock, and a smear of wet across his palm.

Tom leans forward and drags his tongue across Edward’s palm, just because he can. Edward tastes of the sea, and his palm is warm. He shudders when Tom drags his tongue between his fingers, and sways toward Tom when Tom pulls away.

“Lie down,” Tom says, voice low.

Edward squints at him, licks his lips, and shuffles down, lying back in his own berth and stretching obscenely. Now that he’s lying down, the thrust of his cock against his trousers is more prominent, and Tom bends over, breathes heavily on the fabric before pulling his fingers lightly down it, tracing out the length of Edward’s cock. “I’d lick you more, if you like,” Edward offers.

“I think you should, sir.”

Edward beams at him, moves up onto his elbows like he’s going to get up.

“No, sir,” Tom says gently, putting his fingers on Edward’s sternum and pressing him back down. “I just put you there. Stay down.”

Edward whines, presses up against Tom’s fingers without any serious pressure, his heels shoving against the sheets, and setting them to ruin.

“Trousers off,” Tom says, undoing Edward’s buttons deftly, and sitting back on his heels to watch him struggle the rest of the way out. It’s not unlike the way he thrashes sometimes when Tom is fucking him, when Tom digs his nails into the soles of Edward’s feet, when he lays a trail of bruises across Edward’s chest, right up underneath his collar but no further.

The trousers end up crumpled at the end of the bed. Tom turns and picks them up, shakes them out as he lifts his leg and straddles Edward’s waist, pinning his thighs together. Tom glances down as he folds Edward’s trousers, watching Edward’s cock bob uselessly, too heavy to rise any more than an inch or so above Edward’s stomach. It’s so hard it looks painful, flushed red and wet at the tip, with that large vein standing out along the length of it that Tom absolutely loves. He drags his fingertips along it now, reaches over with his other hand and sets Edward’s trousers on his washstand.

“There,” he says, and Edward whines underneath him, his eyes huge and round as he watches Tom touch his cock. “Shhh, shhh.”

(Tom doesn’t think they’ll be overheard, not tonight—but it doesn’t do to give Edward more leeway than he needs.)

“Mr. Jopson,” Edward pleads. “Please, I need—”

“Shhh,” Tom says gently, touched by the reversion to formality. He goes down to all fours, shuffles gently forward up to Edward’s chest.

Waits.

Lowers his voice. “Would you still like to use your tongue on me, sir?”

“God’s blood, _please_ , can you—would you—I need—”

Tom smiles, rubs his thumb over a bite mark on Edward’s neck, carefully placed so that it’s just under his collar. He shuffles up Edward’s body until he’s hovering right over Edward’s face.

“Tom, please, Tom, Tom—” Edward arches up under Tom, and Tom rises up higher on his knees, reaches back to plant his hand on Edward’s sternum again and press _down_.

“Stay,” he says firmly. “Sir.”

Edward exhales, and settles back into the bed.

“No shirking duty, sir,” Tom continues, even though he wants nothing more than to get on with it. He presses into Edward’s chest a bit harder, puts his other hand on his own cock, and nearly hisses with relief at the welcome pressure of it. “No touching your own cockstand, and no reaching for mine. You wanted to use your tongue, and I want you to use your tongue. Apply yourself to your labour, please.” He bites his lip as he draws his hand up his cock, twists his grip on the head, sending a shock of pleasure up his spine. “Show me your dedication, Lieutenant.” He lets go of his cock, takes a deep breath.

(Edward is staring at him, eyes wide and face pink.)

Tom lowers himself onto Edward’s face cautiously, feeling his thighs burn as he goes down, reaching up to the beam above the bed so that he can brace himself. He goes down slowly, carefully, cautious of the intimacy of the act, the exposure of it, the ache of his cock, the fact that Edward will still need to _breathe_ , somehow—

Edward moans underneath him, opens his mouth, and _licks_.

His tongue is wet and warm, and his nose is nudging up against Tom’s bollocks. Tom bites his lip, experimentally rocks against Edward’s face. There’s a muffled sound from behind him as Edward scuffs his heels on the bed, murmurs something unintelligible against Tom’s arse before reaching up and gripping Tom’s thighs tightly, tugging Tom closer against him.

Tom huffs out a surprised breath, his heart racketing in his chest, and his hand clutching the beam above him. “Listen to me, Edward,” he says, voice low. “If you’re good for me—can you be good for me, sir?”

Edward squeezes Tom’s thighs. “Yes,” he says, voice muffled by Tom’s thighs. “—want—”

“You can have it, sir,” Tom says, his voice not nearly as steady as he intends it to be as he rocks down against Edward’s mouth again. It feels like his entire body is on fire, the warmest he’s been since they left Greenhithe. He likes to be in control, to keep a firm hand on things, and the only thing that feels firm right now is the beam he’s steadying himself on, and the length of cock in his hand. His thighs are shaking, his toes curling, and everything between his legs is _wet_ from Edward’s tongue and his breath both. He exhales, rocks against Edward’s mouth just to feel Edward gasp and redouble his efforts.

(He’s going to look a right mess when Tom lets him go, his face soaked with his own drool, his whiskers matted with it, his hair loose and tangled, his eyes starry and vacant. He’ll be incoherent for an hour afterward, absent-minded and willing to go where Tom puts him, and Tom will wash his face, and clean his prick, and brush his hair, and tuck him into his berth and wish that he could stay. Maybe they won’t have to wait until London. Maybe they’ll have time in the Sandwich Islands, maybe they’ll have time—)

And then Tom’s thoughts disintegrate and scatter as Edward tips his chin, narrows his tongue to a point and spears it inside Tom’s arse. Tom thinks he curses, thinks it’s audible. His legs are clamped tight around Edward’s head, and he’s not sure if Edward can breathe—but, no, he must be able, because that’s Edward’s breath, hot on the inside of his thighs.

“Touch yourself, sir,” Tom commands, and Edward scrambles to do it, the action creating an irregular wet-slick sound which means Edward’s technique must be awful, but it hardly matters.

(Tom is close.)

“You’ll do this for me again, sir,” Tom says, and he’s not sure whether he means it as a question or a command, but Edward is gasping out a litany of _yes yes yes_ anyways, and pressing kisses against the inside of Tom’s thighs in between messy wide licks to Tom’s arse. “The next time you’re the active partner—the next time I let you—you’ll do this after, you’ll clean me up—”

“I promise, I promise,” Edward babbles incoherently underneath him.

“The way you left me last time was a disgrace—”

“I know—”

“Hours of you seeping out from between my legs—

“I know, I know, I—”

“And you knew how to do this the whole time,” Tom breathes. He pulls himself away from Edward’s mouth, sits back on Edward’s chest, because Edward’s pillow has done nothing wrong, and deserves no punishment.

Edward himself looks a disaster. His eyes are unfocused, eyelids heavy, his face red and flushed. There are tears in the corners of his eyes, wet tracks down his cheeks, and his smile is so loose he looks drunk.

“You didn’t even share,” Tom scolds, and he tightens his grip on his cock, hooks the fingers of his other hand inside Edward’s mouth, tugs his jaw down until his mouth is gaping open. “All these secret tricks you’re burying away. I’m going to fuck the rest of your secrets out of you, Lieutenant Little.”

“Do you—promise?” Edward gasps, his words poorly enunciated due to Tom’s fingers.

“Always,” Tom breathes, his crisis approaching at a rapid pace. He tugs Edward’s mouth open a bit wider. “Close your eyes, luv.”

Edward sucks in a breath, his eyes widening momentarily before he shuts them tight, his forehead wrinkling as he scrunches his face.

Tom bites his lip, strokes his cock, and comes all over Edward’s face. Edward’s mouth is wide open, held there by Tom’s fingers, and Tom aims there initially before deciding that he can’t possibly make Edward any more of a mess than he already is, and letting the final pulses of his crisis hit Edward’s cheek, his nose, his forehead. There are droplets of it on Edward’s eyelashes, and Tom sucks his own release from his thumb before reaching up and gently stroking the mess away from Edward’s eyes. Tom feels shaky and hollowed out in the best way, and he sits back on Edward’s chest just in case his knees unexpectedly give out underneath him.

Edward is murmuring profanities in a soft rasp of a whisper, his eyes still closed and his jaw slack. The rest of his body is still.

Suspiciously so.

Tom glances back over his shoulder, and the lamplight glints off a wet spot on his bare arse, which perfectly explains Edward’s current lassitude. “Didn’t give permission for that, sir,” he says dryly.

Edward chuckles softly, and cracks his eyes open, squinting up at Tom. “Didn’t exactly mean to, did I.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Tom teases, wipes his drool-covered fingers off in Edward’s whiskers. His entire body feels shaky with the aftermath of his crisis, and it’s wonderful. “Did you?” He tilts his head, looks proudly at his work. “What did it for you?”

Edward’s gaze slides off to the side, and he clears his throat. “Well. Er.”

“ _Ed_ ward,” Tom says in a soft sing-song.

“You closed my eyes,” Edward says softly, glancing tentatively back at Tom. “I, er. Had someone...in my face, on my face, rather...once, back in London, when I was on half-pay. It stung something horrible, and my eye was red for a week, and I’d have done that here, too, for you...but you closed my eyes.” He squirms underneath Tom, blushing furiously. “It was kind of you. I’ve, um. Not done that since then.”

Tom raises his eyebrows, and rubs his knuckles against Edward’s cheek. “There’s no reason for you to go without, if you like it that much, sir,” he says. “And I can’t let everyone else on ship know how accommodating you are for me, now, can I?” He braces himself on Edward’s chest and pushes himself up to a kneeling position, only to immediately sit back down again when his thigh threatens to cramp.

“Please don’t tell them,” Edward says softly, putting his hands back on Tom’s thighs and holding him, gently. He lifts his head off the pillow, nuzzles Tom’s knee. “I’ll be ever so good for you, I promise.”

“I know,” Tom says, bending down and pressing his lips against the top of Edward’s head. “I’ll keep you very safe, sir.”

🥕🍎

Edward watches Tom get dressed with the spare pillow hugged to his chest, watches as Tom fastidiously tucks in his shirt, straightens his waistcoat, and ties his neckerchief without looking at it. He glances in Edward’s mirror to check his hair, and then smiles at Edward slyly.

“You’ll have to get some sleep, sir,” he says. “It’s not long until morning.”

“That hardly leaves you any time for the same,” Edward points out.

“Oh, I’m quite revitalized,” Tom says. He takes a step closer to the bed, and then presses his lips to Edward’s cheek before going still.

“Hmm?”

Tom pulls back and looks at Edward’s right ear, and then back at his left, his mouth pursed. “Well,” he says softly. “It appears I’ve been misled.”

Edward’s face goes hot. “Oh?”

“I was informed,” Tom says slowly, tapping Edward’s right ear, “of this hole right here, as though your ear had been pierced. And I thought to myself—ah, there are any number of reasons that may have happened. After all, a young officer may get up to all kinds of silliness, especially once who has been posted to an equatorial location—and I believe you have been, haven’t you, Lieutenant Little.”

Edward swallows. Nods.

“But I see I’ve been led astray,” Tom continues, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as he reaches out and taps Edward’s left earlobe. “Because there are two other holes right here, in this lobe, that I’ve never noticed before.” He rubs the earlobe fondly between his thumb and finger. “Once may be a mistake, but a second and third time? That makes it appear as though it’s on purpose, sir.”

Edward’s face is hot with embarrassment, but there’s nowhere to hide—and he has no inclination to do so, not when Tom knows him so well. “You’ve caught me out,” he says softly. He doesn’t mention the small cloth bundle he has tucked away in the back of his drawer, layers and layers of fabric to protect small gold rings and delicate chains and other bits of jewelry, pretty things that he’s picked up in one place or another for a ladyfriend he does not and never will have. He does not mention it—but he will, and he suspects that Tom would like, very much, to see it.

Tom’s eyes drop to the nightshirt he had dressed Edward in mere moments before, stay there a moment before he tilts his head and smiles. “Are there other places you may have had pierced, Lieutenant Little?”

Edward’s hand is on his chest before he’s even consciously finished the thought. He quickly puts it back on the bed, but his face is burning regardless; his nipples are peaked under his nightshirt, and he knows Tom has taken his meaning. “You should be sleeping, Mr. Jopson,” he says, in a voice which doesn’t even do him the courtesy of attempting to be steady.

“I am on my way, sir,” Tom agrees cheerfully. Then he leans down, his lips right next to Edward’s ear. “But don’t forget, sir—I have a sewing needle, if you find yourself with a need that cannot be filled.”

There are no words, and no way that Edward could say them, even if there were.

Kissing Tom breathless, though, seems to get his point across.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content Notes:** Edward’s backstory involves him having paid for a lot of sex in brothels, and from a variety of sex workers; Tom is a bit hung up on it, by which I mean he sees it as a Sexy Challenge | humiliation re: Edward, but Edward is extremely enthusiastic about it | brief blood mention when Edward bites his tongue | background theme of piercing kink; no actual piercing occurs in the fic |
> 
> The lovely prompt Tish provided me with is as follows: _Tutoring the new Lieutenant *wink wink*. Does Jopson have a few things to teach his senior officer? *nudge nudge*_ It might have been a five times Jopson taught Little/one time Little taught Jopson if I'd organized it that way...but I didn't count.
> 
> **Fun Facts:**  
>  \- Ed Little’s emotional support pillow makes another appearance! This is probably becoming part of my Brand at this point.  
> \- Tom Jopson invented domming; thank you and goodnight. (His [Closer-verse self](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23457298/chapters/56231185), obviously, invented subbing—if you considered this piece a mirror image to that one; you would not be wrong.)  
> \- Tozer gets a hell of a lot of mentions in here for a dude who isn't in the piece, but, sadly, I know what I'm about.
> 
> Thank you to [Autumn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am) who beta-read for me, eased me into more period-appropriate language (mistakes, obviously are all mine), cheerled me, and told me I could definitely get this done, which I very much needed to hear.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heyktula) and on [tumblr](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/), and, courtesy of Autumn, the fic has a [moodboard](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/630793656035573760/how-to-train-your-lieutenant-a-joplittle-fall)!


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